


Sunday In The House With Malcolm

by wishwellingtons



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, M/M, film titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishwellingtons/pseuds/wishwellingtons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Malcolm occasionally made vague plans to do something about this, but he didn't have time for bookshops and, anyway, he didnae exactly want Jamie thinking he was trying to change him."</p><p>Malcolm and Jamie watch a film together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday In The House With Malcolm

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back in 2010 for the the_thickofit lj community. alichay reminded me of it this evening - I'd genuinely forgotten writing in. It's only a short little piece but people enjoyed it at the time, and I enjoyed rediscovering it!

"I hope this isn't as shite as the last one."  
  
Malcolm gritted his teeth, pressed 'close' on the machine. Jamie was doing that irritating and destructive thing with - well, Jamie did a _lot_ of irritating and destructive things, and had done since birth. In this instance, the irritating and destructive thing was waggling the open DVD case back and forth, turning it nearly inside out, to the detriment of its spine and with a sound like plastic Rolf Harris.   
  
Malcolm sat back on his heels, rubbed the back of his neck - sunburn. Yesterday afternoon (garden, beachtowel, fucking _Sangria_ ) had not been a success; it had, however, been Jamie's choice. Today was Sunday and, actually, in the absence of clusterfucking MPs, subnormal Whips and with a dearth of disasters on the airwaves, Malcolm had been fuckin' hoping to devote some time to his _hedge_ , or at least to a scabrous reply to his ex-wife's solicitors.  
  
However, inexplicably, Jamie had not left Malcolm's house on Saturday evening.  
  
He had stayed.  
  
Malcolm closed his eyes. It wasn't the first time it had happened, not _exactly_. But the other times at least fitted into discursive, long metaphors about fucking and politics, and so much wanking went on in Westminster (so Malcolm argued) that it didnae particularly matter when this one bit had been literal and mutual as opposed to strictly verbal. And Jamie - well, he was Malcolm's oldest friend and latterly/largely Malcolm's own terrifying, unstoppable creation, and even _Malcolm_ didnae always know what planet he was on. So it was easy, it had been easy, to convince himself that (on a fucking scale that went from someone saying 'tit' to the Queen to international nuclear war) in the grand scheme of things, none of the altercations, liaisons, and that last time in a broom cupboard which he supposed could be technically called a blowjob, were _real_.  
  
Unfortunately, Jamie had woken up in Malcolm's bed this morning and gone downstairs and broken two of his coffee cups and the mixture of surprise, fury and resignation (that he was still here; that he'd smashed Villeroy & Bosch; that that was the only part of it Malcolm minded) that formed Malcolm's reaction had told Malcolm that his status of 'fucked' was oh-so-clearly an ongoing thing. So now Jamie was wearing yesterday's jeans and an ancient football shirt which, without Malcolm's knowledge, was _already in his house_ (he would kill the little cunt. Kill him and drop him off Niagara Falls where a million fat tourists could shit on his fucking head), and lolling across his sofa with the eyes of an orphaned bushbaby and the instincts of a feral dog.

"You always choose shite films. _The Naked Lunch._ Not even any tits."  
  
"Shut up," snapped Malcolm, "and imbibe some culture." He sat beside Jamie, a carefully judged distance apart. He removed the DVD case from his grasp.  
  
Jamie picked up a packet of Hula Hoops (he had not arrived at Malcolm's empty-handed. In addition to booze that would have killed two sailors, he'd brought a hundredweight of crisps, a box of cocktail sausages, Marmite, a cooked chicken - Malcolm had no idea - and, rather sweetly, a bag of satsumas, which he knew Malcolm liked). After five seconds, Malcolm removed those too.  
  
"But I'm hungry."  
  
Malcolm took the packet of Hula Hoops and disappeared into the kitchen. Surprisingly, no abuse followed; then he remembered. There would be trailers, first, and Jamie _fucking loved_ adverts. As a baby - so Ma Macdonald, God rest her tiny soul, had told Malcolm - she'd parked his pram in front of the Betamac shop window, and her firstborn had drooled up at Birds Eye and the Aquafresh song. When Malcolm came back, Jamie was staring, glazed, at a shouty preview of something with Clint Eastwood. He didn't even look up.  
  
He did, however, register the bowl being put into his lap. "...you are anal. You are seriously fucking anal. There are men like you in California prisons. If I got crisps on your sofa, would you throw bleach in my eye?"  
  
"Anything's better than your fucking rustling. Watch the film." Jamie subsided, picking Hoops from the bowl and stuffing them into his mouth.  
  
"Do we have any scampi crisps left?"  
  
"You ate them last night."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
Amused, Malcolm glanced sideways - apparently the little cunt was genuinely disappointed. The titles came up - distracted, Malcolm swore and fumbled for the remote.  
  
"This isnae another Spanish one, is it?"  
  
"What? .....it's in Italy, you prick. Jamie, you did fucking _know_ Venice was in - "  
  
" - 'course I did." Malcolm kicked himself. He and his wife ( _malevolent treacherous troglodyte bitch_ , he recited, mentally, under prior instructions from Fuckface and as a way of not reading for the phone) had taken foreign holidays each year, but apart from Lourdes (his stepbrother), as a teenager, Jamie'd never actually been abroad.  
  
This was an excuse for not dislodging the arm that, moments later, snaked under his head.  
  
"That other one, though. _Blood Wedding._ That was Spanish. And shite. There wasnae even - "  
  
"Jamie, shut up."  
  
"Is this bloke any good?"  
  
Malcolm sighed. Aside from _Das Kapital,_ his Catechism, the Bible and - predictably - any printed matter relating to Jolson, the only book Malcolm had known Jamie read was The Sweeney's TV tie-in. Malcolm occasionally made vague plans to _do something about this,_ but he didn't have time for bookshops and, anyway, he didnae exactly want Jamie thinking he was trying to _change_ him. It wasn't true, and even if it had been, the outcome'd be far more damaging that Malcolm's burnt neck. Jamie rested one leg, heavily, over his.  
  
" _The Birds_. That was shite too, you said it was scary. You could see the bloody _wires_."  
  
"Jamie, haud your fuckin' whisht or - "  
  
" _Goodbye Mr Chips_ , he wouldnae leave; _Death Becomes Her_ , it fucking didn't; still at least _The Constant Gardener_ wasn't just you and that _fucking_ hedge - "  
  
"Jamie - " Malcolm was about to start in on another diatribe, but he remembered that nothing he'd ever said, and no violence he'd ever _threatened_ had _ever_ silencd Jamie for long. He therefore reached over, grabbed the scruff and a sizeable portion of Jamie's shirt, and dragged him in for a kiss that ruined clothes, bruised lips, and _finally_ brought that wild-eyed _calm_ to Jamie's face, guaranteeing at least a few minutes' silence before he started again.  
  
Jamie made a pleased noise, and shoved his head into Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm ran his hand through Jamie's hair.  
  
" _Death In Venice_ ," Jamie murmured, settling in. "Let's fucking hope so."


End file.
